


When I'm Reborn

by Nerdanelparmandil



Series: Fëanorian Week - March 2019 [5]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Family Dynamics, Father-Son Relationship, Fëanorian Week 2019, Good Parent Fëanor, Marriage, Mother-Son Relationship, Rebirth, Veiled Mention of Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-28 03:38:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18203003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerdanelparmandil/pseuds/Nerdanelparmandil
Summary: I. "She had noticed that boy, all angles. One moment he was motionless, the next one he was pure movement." - How Nerdanel fell in love with - and married - Fëanáro.II. "Out of the grey Gate, garbed with a grey tunic and even grey shoes, he had been sent on his way, his legs still stumbling unsteady under his newfound weight. He had felt like a foal, long-limbed and off-balance." - The first steps of Fëanáro after rebirth might be the most challenging.III. "She had loved the mountains best [...]; the exhilaration that invaded her after she had reached the top and looked back at the road she had just travelled, was surpassed only by the rush of terror and amazement that would overtake her every time she looked from those dizzying heights [...] and saw the world down there, small and perfectly detailed as in the best of paintings. If she could use an emotion to describe what she felt the moment the Maia said Curufinwë Fëanáro, it would be that." - Nerdanel too struggles to take the next step in a new life.Written for Fëanorian Week 2019, prompts: marriage, healing.





	When I'm Reborn

**Author's Note:**

> There's one scene were sex is alluded to, so that's where the rating comes from. It's nothing explicit, but just to be safe.
> 
> I wrote most of this story with the song "Shrike" by Hozier in the background - it fits Fëanor's part, mostly, and the title comes from it. Then, last week I discovered also "Would that I" and I immediately thought of the third part of this story. 
> 
> Enjoy!

 I. Nerdanel

 

Valinor, Years of the Trees.

 

She was barely out of childhood when she began to work beside her father Mahtan. His warm large hands, his low and patient voice guided her with gentleness for years. She learned to unwind the threads of matter, to know it and bend it, use it and render it more beautiful with the strength of her small hands and the fancy of her mind. In time, Nerdanel learned to listen.

Every substance would sing of itself. Her task was to understand the song, bind a new melody with it so as to create a new theme, from which her art could come to life. The secret lied in accommodating the matter, letting it speak for itself and enriching it with things newer and more beautiful. So Nerdanel learned to understand the inanimate matter – she soon discovered that people were not that different, although their song was broader and always changing. She could read thoughts by the mere posture and expression, could understand their personality from words and action and this allowed her, with practice, to know in depth their hearts and minds. Her curiosity had her observing, noting down, drawing, seeking always the new, the unexplored. She hungered for knowledge and was awed by the beauty of what she learned.

In sculpting she found the perfect means for expressing herself and her art. She liked the physical effort it required. She loved to touch, to brush the tips of her fingers on both the uneven and smooth surfaces of marble, granite, wood, clay or bronze. She could feel under her nimble hands the cold of stone and the living heat of wood. She could smell them, she listened to their songs.

While she sculpted, she used to hum her theme, in accordance with the substance she was working with, while in her mind she could see her idea move, fidget, grow into a final form.

 

She had noticed that boy, all angles. One moment he was motionless, the next one he was pure movement and she thought that if there ever was something supremely beautiful in Arda, it was he. She contemplated sculpting him; she drew him, made drafts. Yet, these projects remained always unfinished, for in the meantime he had _moved_ and had become more beautiful to her eyes - she had to capture _that_ instant instead.

The boy apparently loved travelling as much as her, for their path crossed under a starlit sky on the shores of Araman. Nerdanel knew him then, Curufinwë Fëanáro, the Spirit of Fire. She saw him, his eyes blazing like the lights of Varda, and wondered if it were possible to carve the dancing flames without depriving them of their movement and of their intrinsic beauty.

In time, Nerdanel came to know also his mind and she thought his song was deeper, more complete than others she had heard. His mind _was_ fire and his body was but the manifestation of that spirit, still so young and already so _vast_ , his possibilities endless. Nerdanel was fascinated every time she saw how he could understand swiftly the songs of matter. This danced and transformed in his palms, flowed between his fingers and became something _else_ , an unreachable beauty in front of her eyes.

Maybe she was too enchanted by him, maybe she was exaggerating. Yes, she must have been. It was simply not possible that an Elda – so young – could be all of that and not be himself a Vala. The first times he looked her in the eyes, she shuddered: there was too much light, too much strength. She was curious, though, and his spirit enthralled her; he changed every day, and she wanted to understand him, to listen to his song in its every movement. So she stopped lowering her gaze – she looked at him straight in the eyes, firm and sure in wanting to comprehend his mind, determined to see if he was as extraordinary as everyone said, if he was fallible, if he was perfect.

She listened as he spoke, his voice nice but still fluctuating in his adolescence, full of enthusiasm and curiosity – traits he shared with her, and he noticed that. She challenged him to uncover his knowledge and abilities, “Let me see”, she seemed to say to him, “let me see who you _are._ ” And he, proud, accepted. So she listened again and began to understand him. Soon she realised that Fëanáro was in turn interested in her, in her mind, in her way of looking at things and modelling them.

(She also became aware of his shortcomings, his fickle temper, his sense of inadequacy, buried deep within his self, underneath his overwhelming pride and stubbornness. Yet, these things had not bothered her then.)

They started to seek each other’s counsel for their arts and soon became confidants of another nature. Her patience, her safety soothed him – she was no threat, she was a puzzle, she inspired him to challenge himself, to become better, to see things from another perspective – and she succeeded where others could not. Together they were stability and novelty, comfort and unbalance. With a word, a glance, they could understand each other or make each other’s certainties crumble. Together they built things always new and grew. So, when finally there was nothing left for him to learn, not even from Aulë, he still sought the counsel and the guide of Nerdanel, her honest opinion that dragged him back on the earth, downsized him.

All the while, the boy all angles had become a man and Nerdanel was convinced that no, she had not exaggerated, he was the most beautiful creature in Arda – especially then, when his voice had become warm and deep and lulled her while she sculpted. He would sing for her and she would feel the gentle heat of those flames she had never been able to capture in stone, but she knew they would be _hers_.

 

The announcement of their betrothal was bittersweet for Nerdanel. They were too young – adults in body but not yet of age. _She_ could not be a good match for a prince like Fëanáro. Obviously not, there were other beautiful women of the court that would not have disfigured beside the beauty of the prince. Not her, she was no noble lady, no matter how much her art had rendered her famous and appreciated – not enough. She looked _nice_ , but not enough. Her hair was of a simple brown colour, after all – so common among the Noldor (never mind the unusual copper-shades she had inherited from her father and that Fëanáro praised in her locks). Her skin was dotted with freckles, it was neither smooth nor perfect (yet, Fëanáro liked to spend hours counting them, tracing them with his burning fingers); her hands were calloused and strong, albeit slender, shaped by her work, her best asset as an artisan; her body was too muscled for a lady of the court. No, she would have cut a poor figure beside the prince.

These rumours worried her, not at all because she feared Fëanáro would listen to them. No, she worried that she might have had too much faith in the intellectual abilities of her kin. How could they reduce the worth of her being to her mere appearance? She could not wrap her head around the idea that she had to match Fëanáro’s looks for their union to be considered valid.

Oh, they were so convinced that Fëanáro would have preferred a more beautiful bride. How wrong they were. Fëanáro was proud and quick of mind; he had no patience for someone that could not keep up with him. It had never been a matter of physical beauty. He felt he had found his match in Nerdanel and for this he loved her – he loved her _mind_ above all else. There would be no other woman for him except for her.

 

Only once did Nerdanel cry. Was her work so worthless; was _she_ so worthless in the eyes of her kin? Where the praises only lies? Fëanáro raged and decided to put an end to the nonsense once and for all. They would marry, instantly, away from everyone, alone, if that allowed him to protect her from the vipers of the court. (And how ridiculous it was, that everyone was quick to point out his status of prince to underline her inadequacy, and at the same time dismissed his choice as foolishness. How dared they presume _he_ would yield to their idiocy).

 

At last Finwë intervened, blessing their union and declaring a week of celebration.

 

The ceremony was grandiose and Nerdanel impressed in her memories the moment in which they exchanged their vows, the bright smile that softened his sharp and perfect features; the golden light of Laurelin dancing merrily in his grey eves – she felt again his flame, coming closer to envelope her in its warmth.

 

Their real union she would keep in her heart for the rest of her life.

They both were clumsy and embarrassed, slightly anxious. Despite all of Fëanáro’s knowledge, in _this_ he was still inexperienced. In that hour the lights of the Trees were mingling and their play was reflected on the smooth skin, the bright eyes and the raven hair of Fëanáro.

Nerdanel forgot all her clumsiness, all her uncertainty and drew him closer. She felt enveloped by a velvety blanket, irresistible to the touch; all she could see was a dark curtain that tickled her cheeks, her neck, her breast. Fëanáro’s hair imitated the caresses of his hands on her body, while his lips sought hers. They tasted of berries and wine, sweet with a hint of heady sharpness, wet and warm as they explored her mouth with abandon. They had kissed before, and every time Nerdanel had believed that she could suffer from happiness. That night, however, he carried her elsewhere. She was flying over the Pelori and merging with the earth beneath her. She felt invincible yet vulnerable, ready to open herself up to Fëanáro, body and mind.

She passed a hand through his silken hair, looking at his face, so close to her, caressed his cheek, the long dark lashes, his straight nose and his sensual lips. She almost wanted to weep seeing the affection in his eyes. Emboldened by it, her hands travelled over his neck, tickling the delicate skin where his veins pulsed wildly. And further still, she traced his every muscle, found the places where he was more sensitive, felt him tremble, sigh, groan, as he buried his face in her hair, kissing her neck, her lips, her eyelids. His large hands were scorching hot against her freckled skin where they pressed inane caresses, dragging a lilting prayer out of her throat.

They found comfort in their embrace.

They moved as one, she welcomed him, he answered by pressing into her, onto her, no space left between them. He was burning and she with him as their _fëar_ joined and all she could perceive was _him_ , only him. Her _husband_. He was she, he slipped under her skin, in her mind. Her senses were at the same time narrowed only on his body, heavy, sweaty and trembling with pleasure, and expanded as if she were able, in that moment, to hold a star of Varda in her arms without being consumed.

Her name on his lips spoke of tenderness and devotion, that proud Fëanáro never showed to the world. He was bare for her, the Spirit of Fire stripped into his pure form and she loved him, though she felt one step away from being utterly devoured by his flames.

But that flame was hers now, with Eru their testimony.

 

*

 

II. Fëanáro

 

Valinor, some time after the Fourth Age.

 

The Halls of Mandos had a curious way of preparing one for rebirth. First, Fëanáro had been allowed to see the events as Vairë and her Maiar had weaved them on their impalpable tapestries. He had to keep silent, though, for it had been still part of his repentance and time of reflection. Then, there had been the possibility of speaking with other _fëar_ , yet few would talk with him. He had spent a long time alone, shunned by Eldar and Maiar both, until he understood he could wander the Halls on his own in search for someone.

So he had found his father, beloved and dear beyond measure, and with him some peace. Together they followed the fate of their House unfolding on those incorporeal canvases, the figures of faded blues and greys embroidered with such accuracy they appeared ever moving. After some time – though how could one measure time in those Halls? – Fëanáro had discovered that Miriel herself had woven them.

What she had thought, none could have said and Fëanáro was not sure he had the courage and the strength to meet his mother. Much of his existence had been defined by her absence. Indeed, he felt he had not been prepared for that encounter.

 

Neither had he been prepared for Anar’s blinding brightness. Out of the grey Gate, garbed with a grey tunic and even grey shoes, he had been sent on his way, his legs still stumbling unsteady under his newfound weight. He had felt like a foal, long-limbed and off-balance. If he were to say the truth, he felt like that even now, though his body in the meantime – he had counted three cycles of Anar’s rise and descent – had regained some of his vigour.

He was still ignorant, though. Aman had changed some and he had seen it from the Halls, but the reality was much different. The most practical matters were his biggest concern. Although fruits were still plenty in Aman – they grew ripe on the sides of the road he was on – he would soon need to eat something else. Perhaps even hunt for small animals. He would need a change of clothes, of good shoes at the very least, though he had no way to pay for them. Nor did he know exactly where to go, or where this path was leading him.

The scenery had not changed much since he had left the Gate behind. Fruit trees of the kind found only in Aman as well as conifers similar to those found in Beleriand flanked the path, interrupted by the occasional stream of spring water coming down from the Pelori. Indeed, on his left side, in the distance, he could make out the shapes of the mountain peaks, while on his right and in front of him the thick vegetation seemed to extend as far as his eyes could see. Wild animals and singing birds were his companions – and his heart ached every time his thoughts went to his beloved son, who would have delighted in talking with every creature he encountered.

The Halls of the Dead were far removed from the main cities and fields of the Eldar, so that gave him a margin of – ah, how to count time now? He tried to remember what the Maiar of Mandos had told him about the new reckoning and made some quick calculations – more or less six or seven days before reaching the outskirts of the lands of Formenos, his old stronghold. Perhaps that was the best solution, given his predicament.

There he would perhaps find some farmers still; from what he had gathered in the Halls, the fortress had remained untouched but not entirely abandoned. Some of his old followers, who had more difficulties than expected in reintegrating into society had chosen those lands for their dwellings and had apparently welcomed new inhabitants coming from beyond the Sea. Maybe they would not accept him as their lord anymore, but he hoped to find someone willing to land him a hand. He doubted he could make it further than Formenos with his slippers and a single tunic.

His feet aching – the gravel of the road had already damaged the soles of his shoes – he looked around for a stone big enough to serve as a confortable seat; then he plucked some fruits from the lowest branches of the trees, thanking Yavanna under his breath, and finally sat down to eat. Anar was still high in the sky, its light warm. A gentle breeze, no doubt coming from the mountains, kept the temperature bearable. The juice of the fruit was very sweet, sticking to his fingers and lips. He tried his best not to stain his tunic but to no avail. Some drops dribbled down his chin and fell on his front, forming three blooming purple spots.

Fëanáro sighed, frustrated. He had washed in one of the streams the day before, taking advantage of the warmth of midday to also clean his only garment and had started a small fire to dry it before the night. He had not enjoyed being naked while waiting, not one bit. He had felt exposed, the bugs had seemed overly interested in him and he had had the irrational fear of being watched.

_Only the fourth day of journey and I’m already exhausted. My younger self would laugh at me right now._

He dearly wished for some confortable lodgings, a change of clothes and a decent meal. If things were to go on like they had, though, people would mistake him for an uncouth youth wandering in the woods (or even a lunatic, with ragged clothes, bleeding feet, and hair…He did not want to think of the state of his hair) instead being recognised. Which was probably for the better.

He could not fathom what uproar his reappearance in the capital would cause – if he was not recognised and blocked before even reaching its gates.

He had no illusions about his return among the living. There had been no one to welcome him outside the Halls and there would be no welcome for him in the city of his birth. It hurt, as it had many ages ago, when he had seen his own people divide and choose Nolofinwë instead, called him king, Finwë Nolofinwë. Fëanáro had suspected they would have gladly renounced him even before reaching Araman, but for the love they had borne to Finwë.

He had known even then that he would have made a worse king than Nolofinwë. His brother had the skills necessary in diplomacy, had a strategic mind and was more successful than Fëanáro in holding his temper. Not that Fëanáro had lacked in these regards, but he had never been actually interested in the intricacies of ruling. His mind was constantly jumping from idea to idea and he had always felt stifled by mere politics. He preferred using both head and hands, together to create, build, forge.

Speaking of manual work, a cane would be helpful, if only to have something with which to occupy his hands. _Not that I have anything to carve it with._ At least the search for a suitable branch would hopefully distract his mind from the prolonged silence. He stood, wiping his hands on the stained tunic and started his search, though his thought turned again to past events.

Precocious they had called him, and it was clear to anyone who had met him that his skills and quickness of mind were uncommon and uncanny. When he was still very young, he had realised that his precocity made most people around him uncomfortable. This, in turn, had him thinking, more often than not, that something was either very wrong with him, or very wrong with those people. Perhaps his curiosity was to blame, he had thought then. He questioned everything, in front of everyone, asked why and how over and over again. He had seen how many could not answer, would not answer, how many were content to have half-answers that explained nothing but did not require much effort to be understood.

And that had frustrated him. The world was vast, yet he had felt trapped. His studies had only cemented the feeling. He had learned from the best of his people, from the best of the Valar – the more he had discovered, the more he had become aware of how much there was still to know of what already existed and aware of the possibilities his mind could conceive. Had it been so wrong to dream of going farther than his kin could have hoped?

He had known, almost all his life, that he was capable of creating something unique and never thought before. Light had always captured his attention more than carving stones, bending metal or even language or music ever could. It was the light of Varda’s stars that tug at his heart, the same light of the Trees, reflected in the eyes of the Eldar, which was an echo of the Flame Imperishable residing in each of them – in Fëanáro more than anyone. The light had him yearning for something he perceived was there, barely outside of his reach – yet.

Lore said that not even the knowledge of the Valar combined could encompass all of Eru’s design and it would have been an act of extreme foolishness and pride claiming to have reached a complete knowledge of it. How many times the Valar – and some of his kin, his people – had reminded him of that. Yet, those words had sounded much like an excuse, a warning, rather than counsel. Do not go further, do not seek more! That had never settled well with Curufinwë the craftsman, the scholar. Some steps forward could still be taken, before melancholy took hold of their hearts and turned their minds to the contemplation of what had been, eaten away by Time. For such was the nature of Elves as they grew older, though Fëanáro was repulsed at the thought. He had had enough of contemplation in Mandos.

 

The stone on which he had sat was far behind him, when he finally came across a stick that could serve him well in his travel. He picked it up – it almost reached his chin – and tested its resistance and elasticity. An image of an old Human came to his mind. _I only lack a beard and wrinkles_. He scratched his chin in thought. _Who knows, I spent ages in the Halls. It mightn’t be long before I grow one._ Satisfied with his choice of a cane, he went back on the road, the rhythmic sound of the stick hitting the ground along with his feet sent his mind back to its reminiscence.

 

He knew that his sin did not lie in his desire for _more._ He could see his mistakes now, after he had spent more millennia than he could count in grief and recollection behind the gates of Mandos.

Choosing not to forgive – his father’s second marriage, the Valar’s decisions, his own wife.

Choosing pride over compassion, to bury his need for help because Fëanáro had not needed it, could not trust anyone anymore – and he had not wanted to give his sons that responsibility. He had refused to be seen that vulnerable, had refused counsel, driven by his own obsession and fear of being _replaced_.

Had he hated his father’s children for any other reason? They had made him feel inadequate and this admission had been one of the most difficult obstacles he had to face in Mandos.

The anger and betrayal he had felt, when he had seen his words not being heeded – and as a consequence his darkest fears realised – had been his companions for a long time in the Halls. As had been the anger at himself for playing right into Moringotto’s hand, despite all his efforts.

Jealousy.

He was well aware that he had not been the only player in that catastrophe, that there were things outside his control and maybe even his understanding. He had never had, however, the ability (if it could be called that at all), to make that small leap of faith that allowed others to trust in a higher power. Even now, after all that had happened, he claimed that freedom to doubt for himself.

A fond memory came to him of when he was still a young man working under Mahtan and trying desperately to woo his daughter to no apparent avail. He had had one of those striking (and foolish) realisations that are common in youth and, while beating a stubborn piece of metal into submission, had muttered: _I am my destiny’s forger_. At the time he was thinking about his (still) fruitless courtship, but the thought had remained in the back of his mind. In time, it had developed into a more profound belief in his own abilities as an Elda, a child of Eru, to find his place in the Music on his own.

Arrogant and blasphemous he had been called in his previous life. _And it seems Mandos has not cured me of that._ The Valar could not change the very nature of a _fëar_ , after all. They could tend to them, help them, guide them, (imprison them), but the change had to come from the will of the _fëar_ itself, and Fëanáro had nothing, if not a strong will.

He snorted at the thought. How ironic, how tragic, how absurd his life had been. Everything he had said, he had believed, feared had finally come to pass in the most twisted way, yielding results that were very logical and yet, still unpredictable.

And in the midst of it all, his wife, his sons. That was a sobering reminder of what lay ahead. There was no use in reminiscing again and again on past deeds for which he had paid a dear price already. His task now was far more challenging and daunting.

 

How could he even begin to remedy what has happened between them? His children, he had seen them in the Halls. Their stay had been long and tormented but eventually, at last, they had been allowed to leave – all but one, though he had no desire to see the world yet. Fëanáro had to trust in that promise. He had talked with them at lengths, but that could not compare to seeing each other in the flesh. He longed to be able again to hold them in his arms, to run his hands through their hair in soothing caresses, to listen to their voices as they chattered, to hear them laugh with joy and abandon. He wanted to show his love for them with gestures and actions instead of mere thought.

His wife…Was he still allowed to call her that? He could not think of how his new life would be, if their bond were to be severed for good. Yet, were that her wish, he would grant it in a heartbeat, for he desired her to be free and happy. He had been a source of sorrow for too long and letting her go seemed the easiest way.

The other possible path was that of reconciliation, though he dared not be too hopeful. He had to see her, though. If there was one he had wronged more that anyone else, it was her. Never in his existence had he been accused of being a coward. The though of seeing her again and reading on her face anything resembling disgust, terror or even apathy filled him with sickening dread.

 

So absorbed in his thoughts he was, that he failed to notice how the birds had changed their songs, as if greeting a welcomed presence. Fëanáro had his eyes firmly set on the ground, trying to convince himself that indeed, finding a way to reach out to his estranged wife could prove the right thing to do, when the sound of hooves startled him.

A large white horse was galloping down the path, the rider crouched on his back. Fëanáro could barely see the top of their head, fair in the light of Anar.

He froze in his stead, suddenly aware that the rider could see him and there was no use in hiding by now. He took a deep breath, unsure and tense about the impending encounter. He hoped the stranger would spare him no more than a passing glance and continue on their way. No need to talk, no need to explain himself. He had craved company but, faced with the prospect, all his instincts told him to run.

The stranger was too close now though, and had reined his horse to a stop right in front of Fëanaro, who kept his gaze averted. With an urgency Fëanáro recognised well – for the carriage of this stranger was familiar, however odd such a thing might seem – the rider dismounted and began talking even before his feet had reached the ground, still facing away from him.

 

“Good day, sir. Pray tell me, am I on the right path for…”

 

Fëanáro stumbled back as if hit at the sound of the stranger’s voice and a breath caught in his throat. The cane slipped from his hands and bounced on the ground, His gaze went immediately to the stranger’s face, searching for familiar eyes and dreading the moment he would recognise him. He felt two strong hands wrapping around his shoulders, keeping him from tripping on his own feet. He would have recognised the face right in front of him among thousands of other, for it was his son, his _son_! Here, at mere inches from him, after ages of separation. Fëanáro was overwhelmed by a storm of emotions he could barely contain as his legs threatened to give out under him. He wanted to cry out in joy _my Tyelkormo, my child!_ but no sound would come out.

“Careful! I mean no harm, I…Oh, Eru above!”

Fëanáro watched as Tyelkormo’s eyes widened in recognition, his jaw dropping in disbelief and – dismay?

Of course, of course his children would not be overjoyed, there was no reason to think otherwise. He had not expected the flash of pain in his chest, gnawing at his heart and stomach, the bitter aftertaste of rejection heavy on his tongue preventing him from uttering a word.

“Father! Father! Is it really you?” cried Tyelkormo, as tears welled in his eyes. Then, he drew Fëanáro close to his chest, trapping him in his strong hold, as a litany of _fathers_ fell from his lips. Fëanáro was paralysed for a long moment before his paternal instinct took over and returned the embrace, hesitantly. He placed his hands lightly on Tyelkormo’s back, not daring to do anything else. His son was taller than him, though now he was curled in, miserable and trembling, with his proud head bowed on Fëanáro’s shoulder.

“Forgive me, oh Eru, forgive me, forgive us!”

His son sounded so upset and regretful that Fëanáro’s heart broke and he held him closer. There had never been a doubt in his heart that his sons deserved anything but forgiveness. He held still to the belief that every deed of theirs had been driven by that wretched oath and the terrible Doom with which Mandos had punished them. He did not like to dwell on those thoughts right now, not with his trembling child in his arms. He could not understand, though, why Tyelkormo would be so distressed. They had talked at length in the Halls, he should not doubt of Fëanáro’s forgiveness.

“What – what for?” he whispered, though Tyelkormo must have not heard him, because he still begged.

Fëanáro forced his voice through his parched mouth: “Nothing, there is nothing to forgive,” he croaked.

“But there is, father, there is!”

Tyelkormo drew back enough to look at Fëanáro, though he did not look him in the eyes. “We should have come sooner!”

“What?”

That made no sense, although the whole situation seemed absurd to some extent. Here he was, Curufinwë Fëanáro, damned, exiled prince, kinslayer, doomed never to return among the living until the breaking of the world, exhausted by mere four days of travel by foot, unwashed and smelly – spring water alone was not sufficient, he dearly wished for some scented soap – his tunic stained and his shoes about to fall into pieces, hungry, still oversensitive, unnerved by his whole predicament. He was too tired to think, so he waited for his son to gather his bearings and elaborate on what he wanted to say.

Tyelkormo took a deep breath to collect himself, loosening his hold. He shuffled, not quite meeting his father’s eyes. He looked young and frazzled, with his hair undone haloing around his head, as his hands fidgeted with the hems of his sleeves. He had the air of someone who had left in a great hurry, with worry etched in his features. He reminded Fëanáro of all those times a young Tyelkormo had come to him to confess and apologise because he had hidden an animal in the house – rabbits, cats, squirrels and so on – which had damaged furniture, scared their few servants and left dirt and stains all around the house, to Nerdanel’s exasperation.

Whatever he was about to confess, he feared his father’s reaction as if ashamed of what he had done, though Fëanáro doubted it would be something worthy to be angry over. He was tired of that, and his sons had never deserved his anger.

“We should have come sooner. We didn’t realise that you…that they…Mother didn’t – ah,” he grimaced, as if he had said something that he should not have. It was just like his Tyelkormo to let his tongue slip before his mind could stop him when upset. Fëanáro would have smiled if the words had not stabbed him. _Mother didn’t…Oh Nerdanel, what did you think of me?_

“What do you mean ‘sooner’?” he asked instead.

“The very day you were reborn! I had hoped they would at least wait for one of us to arrive.”

Fëanáro shook his head, “No, my dear, I wished to leave as soon as I could. I was not expecting…”

He hesitated, wondering how to voice his garbled thoughts, but Tyelkormo anticipated him.

“You thought no one would come.”

Fëanáro’s silence was all the confirmation he needed. He cursed.

“Seriously?” he yelled, spooking his horse, which snorted in warning but went ignored. “You thought we would not come and, what, leave you all by yourself? That we would reject you? Father, we are overjoyed! After everything, the things we said to each other, you still doubt our love for you?”

He was hurt but was trying to conceal it behind his loud words. Yelling back was not what he deserved and Fëanáro had no desire for it. His tone was placid when he spoke: “No, Tyelkormo, that is not what I meant, though I’m sorry that my words hurt you. What I meant to say was that I would not have blamed you, if you did not feel ready to see me again. You have no obligation…”

“But I have! You are my father! I cannot let you go around like this,” – ah, so he had noticed his sorry state – “And I do not care about what anyone might say, you do not deserve it!”

Tyelkormo had been nothing if not loyal to a fault to his father and brothers. And stubborn. There would be no way of changing his mind, not when he frowned and squared his shoulder in that way, painfully similar Nerdanel. He even huffed in the same manner, in a combination of exasperation and fondness. Fëanáro changed the course of their conversation: “You said us…”

“Yes,” interrupted Tyelkormo, “Curufinwë and Carnistir were behind me. I rode ahead.”

At Fëanáro’s puzzled gaze, he shrugged: “The birds told me.”

“The birds told you,” repeated Fëanáro, as if that was the most logical answer. Of course they did, those impertinent little creatures. So he _had_ been watched, it had not been just a sensation.

“I had not expected to find you so far from the Halls, truth be told. The birds only said that you were on this road, they did not mention the day in which you came back. But to cover the road behind you by foot, that would take between three to five days.”

Fëanáro nodded at the explanation, taking some pride in the fact that it had taken him only three days and a half despite his…difficulties.

“Judging by your, ah, looks,” continued Tyelkormo, “it’s a good thing that I’ve found you now.”

Ah, of course his son would say that, stripping him of whatever sense of accomplishment he had felt.

“Please, don’t remind me!” he groaned, “Do you have a change of clothes with you?”

Tyelkormo shook his head. “I don’t, Curufinwë does. But I have, at least, some water, bread and cured meat. Though you might want to be careful with that at first,” he said as he bent to pick up the cane Fëanáro had dropped in his shock, “It’s taste is too strong for one just out of Mandos and it’s difficult to digest – Here, your cane.”

“Thank you,” said Fëanáro, accepting the cane back. “Well, I’d prefer a stomach ache right now, than having to eat another fruit!”

Tyelkormo gave him a sharp smile, mirth dancing in his eyes: “Trust me, you don’t!”

“Personal experience?”

“Collective experience, I’d say. We all went through it. It took some adjustment, but you’ll be fine in no time. Just stick to bread for now.”

“Sticking to bread doesn’t sound so bad,” said Fëanáro, though his face must have given away his disappointment, for Tyelkormo laughed, his head thrown back and the smile crinkling his eyes.

 _He sounds happy. Happier._ Fëanáro felt warm and content for the first time in a long time, as he watched his son coo gently at the patient horse, thanking him. Tyelkormo turned to Fëanáro and said: “He has agreed to carry you until we join Curvo and Moryo again. They should not be far and – I don’t think I mentioned this before – they’re on a carriage.”

That was good news. Fëanáro did not think he could have walked until they reached… wherever they were headed.

“Thank you.”

He gave his cane to Tyelkormo and got on the horse.

“What do you want to do with this?” asked his son, gesturing with the cane.

“Why, keep it, of course.”

“Keep it?”

“I found it, it’s my cane now. I’ve grown fond of it.”

“Oh well, in that case… I have a knife with me, maybe you could carve it. It will keep you and Curvo occupied until we reach Formenos – that’s where we are headed, before you ask. Unless you had some other destination in mind?”

“No, I don’t. Well, to Formenos it is, then,” he nodded, determined once again now that he knew what to expect.

Tyelkormo nodded back and, with a hand on the neck of his horse, kept close to Fëanáro as they set forth.

After a while he spoke again, his voice gentle but clear, “I missed you, father.”

Fëanáro reached for his son’s hand, smiling at him, “I missed you too. More than I could ever say.”

 

*

 

III. Nerdanel

 

Valinor, some time after the Fourth Age.

 

The sunlight of the early afternoon filtering through the curtains painted gold the smooth surfaces of the marble and grey its nooks. The inside corner of an eye, shadowed by the bridge of a perfectly straight nose; the fine hair brushing and hiding the ear; the small wrinkles on a brow slightly furrowed; the dip of the upper lip caressed by the darker shade cast by the nose; the corners of the mouth, curled into a faint smile; and down along the line of the throat, where muscles, veins and lock of hair overlapped into an intricate play, until the hem of an embroidered cloak, barely outlined.

Nerdanel regarded the bust in front of her with a hand on her hip and the other closed in a fist against her mouth. Another touch, and the whole work would be ruined. She hummed, acknowledging her satisfaction – she had finished it, finally. And it was perfect, in theory, for it captured in stone the image she had in mind. But she felt there was something wrong and she could not, no matter how much she tried, put her fingers on it.

The white eyes that stared back at her, under the eyebrows set into a familiar frown, gave her no answers. The smile seemed, the more she looked at it, to be almost mocking, the lips trembling in anticipation for the moment in which they would stretch into a derisive smirk.

She shook her head, trying to banish that image from her mind. When she looked again at her work, the eyes seemed fonder and the smile sweeter, as if he were looking at someone dear to him, like a child, a father, a wife…

She averted her eyes abruptly, unable to sustain that gaze. _Enough of this,_ she thought in frustration. She reached in the drawers for the cloths she used to protect her sculptures and paintings; the sooner she covered the bust and put it in her storage room, the better she would feel.

A knock on the door startled her and she hastily pulled out a piece of dark fabric, slamming the drawer shut. In her hurry, she bumped her hip against the table where several of her sketches were stacked, sending them flying. She yelped in pain and cursed at her luck, as she heard the muffled voice of Ambarussa coming from behind the door.

“Mom, are you alright?” – it was Telufinwë.

 _Not at all_ , she thought. “Give me a moment!” she said, finally wrapping up the bust, concealing it hopefully for good. She then went to the door and opened it, seeing the perplexed face of her sixth son. “Yes?”

He peered for a moment behind her, taking in the messy state of her laboratory, his eyes pausing on the covered work, but made no mention of it. “Are you finished?”

She nodded, “Let me just tidy up a bit, alright?”

He shuffled a bit, his eyes meeting hers for a brief moment, before darting away. “Ah, we have a guest.”

“Oh? Why didn’t you tell me that right away? Who are they? Are they waiting?”

“Yes, and we offered them tea and biscuits already. They are in the garden. But…”

“What is it?”

“They claim to be a messenger from Mandos. They want to speak to all three of us.”

“Mandos? What could…Oh well; I better clean myself up, then. Where is Ambarussa?”

“Preparing another tea, I think. He looked at me as if I had betrayed him when I left him alone with our guest…”

“I will hurry,” she waved at him to go, “Go back to your brother and our guest, and tell them I will be there shortly.”

“Alright.”

 

Their guest was indeed from Mandos, one of the Maiar under Lord Namo. They had the appearance of an unassuming Elda, neither tall nor particularly short, slender in form, with straight brown hair and dark eyes. They smiled warmly at her as she exited on the porch from the living room, though she barely suppressed a shiver of uneasiness.

“I apologise for my lateness, I was caught up in my work,” she said as she sat on one of the stools around a short table, upon which a teapot, small plates, steaming cups, and baked goods were carefully arranged, with a small vase of wildflowers on the side. Pityafinwë must have been terribly uncomfortable. He handed her a cup and did not sit, preferring to stand at Telvo’s side. They looked like statues of two sentinels, their faces impassive, although their eyes betrayed curiosity and a small trace of apprehension.

“There is no need, lady Nerdanel – may I call you that?”

“I prefer just Nerdanel.”

“Nerdanel, then. I am in no hurry, your sons have been quite good hosts. This tea of your is especially good! Where is it, ah, cultivated?” They sounded genuinely delighted and curious.

Leave it to the Maiar to be fascinated – and sidetracked – by the most inconsequential things!

“It is a simple mint tea. My daughter-in-law grows the plants in her garden, she made the blend.”

“My compliments! And these biscuits are delicious.”

Nerdanel laughed, gesturing at one of her sons: “Telufinwë is the one that does the baking in this house. Forgive my bluntness, but I am sure that a messenger of Lord Namo would not be here only for an afternoon tea.”

The messenger took a sip from the cup in their hands and their demeanour shifted from comfortable to solemn. He looked at all three of them, before settling his penetrating gaze on Nerdanel. She did not flinch, used as she was, for a messenger of Namo had visited her every time one of her sons had returned. She had had her suspicions the moment her son had warned her of the visit – as surely both had Telufinwë and Pityafinwë.

“You are right. My lord has sent me here to inform you that a member of your family has been granted permission from the Valar to leave the Halls of Mandos.”

She would have known if her dear Makalaurë had died, would have felt the torn bond as she had for all the others. That still had not happened, so only two other members of her family remained.

She hoped.

“Who?” asked Pityafinwë, his stern voice breaking her line of thought. He had taken a step forward and she could not see his face, could not understand if he was trying to shield her from a terrible news or was eager to know the truth. Her boys had become so used to hiding their emotions. She wished, not for the first time, that she could know them as she once did.

Telufinwë went around her chair and put both his hands on her tense shoulders, squeezing lightly.

The Maia was still looking only at her, as they confirmed her fear: “Curufinwë Fëanáro.”

In her youth, before she ever thought of marriage and children – and even princes – she had loved to travel alone in Valinor. She had explored the plains, the rivers, the shores the land had to offer, its forests and lakes. She had loved the mountains best, though. She relished the physical challenge of climbing and hiking; the exhilaration that invaded her after she had reached the top and looked back at the road she had just travelled, was surpassed only by the rush of terror and amazement that would overtake her every time she looked from those dizzying heights – the peaks of the other mountains imposing around her – and saw the world down there, small and perfectly detailed as in the best of paintings.

If she could use an emotion to describe what she felt the moment the Maia said _Curufinwë Fëanáro_ , it would be that. Only, perhaps, coloured more with terror than amazement. Yet, beneath the shock, she was heartbroken and dismayed, though she tried to bury these sentiments with all her might, so that her sons could not perceive them. They had missed their father, she knew, and she had just felt the overwhelming joy and relief in their hearts. She had no desire to crush their hopes, not when their eyes shone so bright with happiness, something that they would not let themselves express in front of a stranger – not anymore.

“What of my other sons, do they know?” she asked.

The Maia nodded with a gentle smile. She could appreciate their placate manner, devoid of pity or judgement. The Maiar of Namo that had delivered these news had a way of appearing friendly and pragmatic, going straight to the point – except for the few distractions, which were more a show of curiosity, for they seldom left the Halls and every little thing seemed to amaze them – and never gave platitudes too much weight. By all means, it was not easy to face them, but she had grown used to it.

“One of my kin – is this the word you use? – has been sent to them.”

“When will our father be released?” asked Telufinwë.

“As soon as he is ready.”

“Meaning?”

The Maia simply opened their hands, as if saying _whenever that is_.

“He would need someone to be there for him,” said Pityafinwë, turning to her, his eyes ablaze, “We must leave immediately, mother!”

_Oh Pityo, my child, you don’t know what you are asking of me._

“Do not be so hasty, son”, she scolded him gently, “We will write to your brothers first, and then you can decide together what you want to do,” she gave them both a silencing look, quelling their protests. Turning to the Maia, she said: “Thank you, this is a most welcome news. Can I offer you more biscuits?”

 

Once Ambarussa had gone back to their rooms, no doubt in order to prepare for their journey, she stopped the Maia on the doorstep. Her hands trembled on the paper box she was holding – a parting gift for the Maia.

“Please, if you can tell me, what of my son, my eldest?”

“I have no answers that would console you, Nerdanel.”

“I beg you, anything! I do not wish for consolation, only the truth.” She knew she sounded desperate, but she could not find it in herself to care.

“Then I will tell you this: your son’s spirit requires time to heal. He is not yet ready and no one but him can know when or if he will ever be. Do not despair, however! Did not my Lord foresee that Fëanáro would remain in his Halls until Arda’s breaking? Yet, he is about to live again. That is a comforting thought, is it not?”

Nerdanel did not know what to think, truth be told. “Indeed,” she composed herself with a sigh. The Maia would not tell her more, no matter how much she tried. “Thank you for your visit and bring our gratitude to your Lord and Lady,” she offered the Maia a paper box: “This is the tea my daughter-in-law has made. Please, take it.”

“You are kind, my lady. I wish you joy. Farewell.”

“Farewell.”

_If only it were that easy._

 

Telufinwë was pacing back and forth in front of the dining table. He had wolfed down his dinner as if he was starving, and then had immediately started cleaning the table. Pityo had helped, eyeing his brother curiously, and now glanced at Nedanel as if to say _wait for it, he has gotten an idea_. At last, Telvo spoke: “If we want to reach Formenos in a reasonable time, we must leave tomorrow. I made calculations. When Curvo was released, they gave us the news some ten days before and the same happened with Tyelko. Formenos is a two weeks ride from here and from there the journey to the Halls takes another four days. We might not even arrive in time! I’m going to write to Carnistir, tell him that we are coming, and maybe not to wait for us, if…”

“I won’t be coming, Telvo.” Her words silenced him in an instant.

“What do you mean, mother?” Pityo’s voice was calm, on the surface, but he looked at her with a closed expression, as if he were studying a stranger instead of his mother. Or maybe, that was simply how they now dealt with their anger; instead of letting it explode, they immediately withdrew. She could not perceive anger yet, though, only confusion.

“That I will be staying here. You go, if you want, of course.”

“But why?” asked Telvo, “Tell us why, at least. I’m sure the others too would ask why you are not with us.”

What to say? She did not want a confrontation, neither did she want to justify herself to her youngest children for a choice she knew was right, but could not understand in full.

“He will need time to adjust, I don’t really think that me being there would be…”

“That’s not true!”

“Pityo, please, don’t shout,” said Telvo.

“What do you want me to say, Ambarussa? I am happy that you can see your father again, truly. I don’t think it will be right for me to be there. I can’t tell you more.”

“You don’t think he will be happy to see you? He’s our father, your husband,” said Pityo.

“Estranged husband,” she reminded him, not without a hint of bitterness, “And your father, of course. Whatever quarrel we have had, I don’t want to drag you into it,” she massaged her temples, frustrated, “Go to your brothers, spend time together with your father, help him adjust, travel. I will be here when you return.”

“What if we all came back here? With father, I mean,” asked Telvo.

She regarded them both with a furrowed brow. She could not understand, were they testing her? “If you do, I will welcome you. All of you, your father included.”

“Then why won’t you -”

“Pityo, that’s enough. You heard her. Have some respect!”

“Telvo, there’s no need.”

“Fine, fine!” Pityafinwë did look angry now, “I will be in my room.”

He stomped away, as Telufinwë called after him: “Don’t break anything!”

They heard a muffled curse and then the door to Pityo’s room slammed shut. Nerdanel felt miserable and helpless. Telufinwë huffed in annoyance.

“He will come around. Although, I wished he would have learned to stop and think for one second more, before opening his big mouth.”

“I’m sorry that my words hurt you.”

“But you’re not sorry for saying them. And there’s no need, mother, you have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I really wished I could come with you. We haven’t travelled together in a long time.”

Telvo shook his head, “Can I be honest with you? I think you are right, coming with us might not be the best idea right now, especially if you and father…well, I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to mend things between you two, have you?”

“How? Everyone was convinced that my husband would remain in Mandos, without hope for rebirth.”

“I know. So you are still…estranged, as you said.”

She could not avoid talking about that, could she? “I don’t really know where we stand, Ambarussa. If we were to have that conversation, me and Fëanáro, we would not want to…I would not wish to ruin your first day with him,” she got up from her chair at the table and went in front of her son, taking his hands in hers, “Neither do I think it’s fair to confront him right away.”

Telufinwë squeezed her hands, nodding; “Yet, it still feels as if we had to choose, you or him, again. It’s what has made Pityo angry.”

“There is nothing to choose, my dear,” she whispered, “Even if we live in separate houses, it won’t change how much we love you. You will always be welcome in my home as if it were yours, because it is.” She would have wanted to tell him a hundred things more, but could say no more, her voice breaking.

“I know, mom, I know,” he hugged her – he was so much taller than her, she barely reached his chin! – “I just want you to be happy.”

 _I’ve never been this happy for a long time, my dear_ , she thought, _but I have been happier, in another time._

 

Ambarussa had waited another two days, before finally departing. Pityafinwë had apologised for his scene, though had still tried to convince her to join them. For some reasons, he dreaded having to explain why she would be absent, not realising that, probably, no one would even question the fact. Her sons, Atarinkë especially, would understand. And if the time spent in the Halls had been put to good use, Fëanáro knew not to expect her to be there.

 

Nerdanel was again in her laboratory that night, sitting on a stool in front of the bust she had finished some days earlier, a steaming cup of tea that she sipped from time to time in her hands. She felt no need to sleep, only to think. She would have liked to believe it had been all a coincidence; that she had had the urge to sculpt him, once again after millennia, right in time for his return. She had felt, when she had gotten the idea, that it had been the right moment, that she would succeed in finally capturing him in stone, as she had wanted to do since the first time she had seen him, a lifetime ago.

How long she had cried, alone in her cold bed, feeling anger, regret and pain all tangled together, unable to move on. She had though for a long time that she had been a stupid girl, had dreamed of reaching too high and the fall had _hurt_. She had made statues of him, when they were married, though she had never been satisfied with them and had never kept them (they had littered Finwë’s palace, the headquarters of the Lambengolmor, Aulë’s halls, corners of Tirion…). After he had died, she had made statues of him, only to have the satisfaction of shattering them soon after with a maul.

She had been angry for so long, at him, at herself, at the Valar, at Eru, at Finwë – at her own sons, for choosing their father, for following him in that madness. What worth had that been? Her life had been suspended in a state of grief; she had wavered between anger and bitterness, then loneliness. When she had decided that it was time to stop looking at the past, and instead to look forward to a future of her choice, she gradually realised that she had all the right to live for herself, and not in his shadow. She was Nerdanel the artist, not the widow, not the estranged wife, not the bereft mother. She was Nerdanel and she would find her purpose again. If that meant helping all the other sundered families she knew – starting from her daughter-in-law, who had lost as much as her, or her friend Anairë, then she would find the strength in herself to do so.

Now, however, now he was back. And looking at this bust, this perfect portrait of that man, alone in her own sanctuary, with no other testimony but herself and a silent piece of marble, she could crack her heart open and admit some truths she had refused to acknowledge before.

She was afraid that he would come back and destroy whatever stability she had found. That he would again be that scorching merciless flame, how he had been in the later years of their marriage, when the web of Melkor had tightened and rendered him mad. When he had been obsessive, secretive, paranoid, convinced that everyone would turn on him, reject him. He had lashed out and a part of her could understand him, now that she had experienced millennia of grief, now that she had seen that in many things he had been right and yet his words had gone unheard.

However, she had come to love her newfound independence too much. She owed him nothing, at all. Not an apology, not the first step towards reconciliation, not even her love. The old Nerdanel, the woman of some ages ago, would have left it at that, would have closed that door and never looked back. Yet, that felt wrong to her now. Welcoming back her sons and grandson had taught her much more in these last few years, than all the centuries of blind grief ever had. She could not really rebuild, without forgiveness. And where forgiveness was not possible, understanding and compassion could be much more effective.

Most importantly, she had learned that the experiences in Beleriand, death, and the Halls of Mandos changed a person. She could not, in all fairness, expect that the Fëanáro that would come out of the Halls now, would be the same as of old.

He would not be the fey creature that had sworn revenge and spilled the blood of his kin; neither would he be the boy all angles and movement that had captured her attention, nor the man that had been part of her soul.

They would be like two strangers meeting for the first time and she was terrified of whatever outcome. She wanted to be unaffected, yet she knew that the moment he would look at her, she would crumble, no matter how much she pretended otherwise. She wanted to be affected by him still, to look at him and see someone she could love – or learn to love again, for the thought of him being alive and in Valinor and not being _hers_ drove her mad. Her husband, her lover, her friend, her bright flame.

She lifted the cup to her lips and grimaced when she tasted the cold tea. With a sigh, she stood up and made for the door. There was no use in deciding what to do now. She would have to face him, sooner or later, at least in order to have some closure – before her sons would set them up for a “chance encounter”, preferably.

As she reached the door, a thought struck her. Of course something was wrong with the bust!

She turned around, observing that face once again. She was certain, that he would not look like that anymore.

Laughing quietly, she went up to her bedroom, looking forward to a good night’s sleep.


End file.
